Again, laughter shook the figure in the screen.
“What game are you playing this time?” Lutt muttered.
“The only one who can break these connections is probably your Uncle Dudley,” L.H. said. “I don’t think he’d do that, but you shouldn’t count on it. Dud always was unpredictable.”
A fit of coughing interrupted the recital. When it passed, the old man pointed down at Lutt. “This Post is yours, Son, but it’s not going to do you a damn bit of good ‘less you use it the way it oughta be used. You gotta be ruthless!”
“Still testing me,” Lutt whispered.
“The Listening Post’s controls are beneath where I put my Final Words for you,” L.H. said. “Once you got my note, all the little traps except the one under my final note to Morey were disarmed. He’s the only one can get his words but you’ll never let him do that. You’ll worry about what I said to him, though. And you’ll cuss me every time you think about it. That’s a sharp spine I’ve stuck in your side so’s you’ll never forget my advice. Be as ruthless as I was, Son. That’s the way to win.”
Again, coughing interrupted the old voice. L.H. spoke weakly when he resumed but Lutt did not trust the appearance.
“I think your mother’s done something to my medicine. No matter. I could not’ve lasted much longer, anyway. But she always was impatient. That’s why I married her. Never liked her fancy ways but she’s tough. I thought she’d give me tough children.”
A bony old hand came up and waved at Lutt. “Bye, bye, Lutt. I’m gone for good now. Think you can live up to my expectations?”
The ceiling screen went blank.
Lutt touched the stand where his note had been. Cold. He pressed the flat surface. Nothing. The red wire? He slipped a fingernail under it and pulled. The stand opened like a shell and there lay a familiar array of CRT screen and keyboard, another screen and yidcom under them. Lutt’s fingers danced over the search circuit keys, spelling out Morey’s name, voice only.
Morey’s faceless voice came from the speaker under the CRT: “I tell you, Gil, I think he’s bluffing. I don’t think he can spy on us at all.”
“You may be right, but what if you’re wrong?” Woon said.
A recording or something happening right now?
Lutt lifted the vidcom handset and keyed Morey’s name. Lights blinked on the walls as the Listening Post circuits searched out his brother’s location. A buzzing sounded.
“Wonder who that is?” Morey asked. There was a click. “I thought I said we were not to be interrupted!”
“I’ll interrupt you any time I want,” Lutt said.
There was a gasp from the speaker. “Where are you? I’m getting no picture.”
“This is the picture I want you to get, Morey,” Lutt said, “I’m not bluffing. Woon! Get your ass in gear and stay away from my brother or I’ll blow you out of the water! Got that?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hanson.”
Lutt pitched his voice in a low, soothing tone. “Morey, would you see to it that Mother causes me as little trouble as possible? That way, you can continue enjoying your life. Oh! Just in case you get violent, everything I know about you will become public if I’m not around to prevent it. Everything!”
Lutt broke the connection and started to replace the handset but paused at another thought. Was it possible? He keyed Phoenicia’s name. Nothing happened. What had his father called her in private? A pet name was out of character. He might have used a code name. L.H. had thought of her as tough. Lutt keyed “Tough.” Still nothing. Fancy? No response to that, either. Lutt sat back and wracked his memory. “Never trust women,” was too long. Woman? Lutt tried it and heard his mother’s voice.
“Lutt will come around when I squeeze him hard enough.”
A recording?
Did he dare reveal he could spy on her? Who was she talking to and where were they? At home?
He keyed the main-house number on the handset and there was his mother’s study visible on the screen with Phoenicia seated behind her ornate antique desk. Her companion was not visible.
“Oh, there you are, Mother,” he said. “Who’s with you?”
“How nice of you to call, Lutt,” Phoenicia said. “Are you calling from a safe vidcom?”
“Nobody taps Father’s offices.”
“So that’s where you are. I must discuss that with you. It seems to me that Morey—”
“Morey stays out of my campaign and out of these offices!”
“I don’t like that tone, Lutt.”
“Morey’s been meeting with Gil and I don’t have any idea who knows it.” He touched the query key on the handset and the screen spelled out a name and title of Phoenicia’s companion: “Barbara Morrison, Senator Woon’s administrative assistant.”
“I’m calling you, Mother, because I’m told you are meeting Barbara Morrison, Gil’s administrative assistant. Is that who’s with you?”
Phoenicia’s tone dripped ice. “Why are you interested in my meeting Barbara?”
“Our connection with Woon must be kept secret until we’re ready to announce it!”
“I’m quite capable of conducting clandestine meetings!”
“But I learned about it!”
“How?” Her tone was imperative.
“I will not tell you.”
“You’re as bad as your father!”
“I could be worse. What are you and Barbara discussing?”
“She says your campaign is going very well. Are you really refusing to debate your opponents?”
“I am.”
“Is that wise?”
“There won’t be any need for debate when we spring Deni-Ra.”
“But debates would give you such a splendid opportunity to show your statesmanlike character.”
“Who says?”
“I will not be questioned like this!”
“I mean to win this election, Mother. You’re meeting with Ms. Morrison; that could cause problems.”
Phoenicia spoke coldly. “For your information, we have been discussing that very question.”
“That’s interesting. What have you decided?”
“The senator must announce his support of your candidacy soon. He will bring many AIP supporters with him. The American Independence party will object, of course, but the strategy of our campaign must take into account the votes Senator Woon controls.”
“Ms. Morrison?”
The screen blurred, then showed both women in profile. That’s a fancy touch, Lutt thought. Ms. Morrison was a brunette with pinched face and half-glasses that added to her look of sexless office functionary.
She faced the lens. “Yes?”
“One moment,” Lutt said. He keyed her name on the spy circuits and asked for a summary. Across the upper screen paraded a brief account—birthplace, schooling, advancements, then: “AIP agent in office of Senator Gilperton Woon. Reports regularly to AIP Council.”
He looked up into her eyes. “It has come to my attention, Ms. Morrison, that you are an AIP spy in Gil’s office.”
She gasped.
“Lutt, what are you talking about?” Phoenicia demanded.
“Be patient, Mother.”
Lutt keyed the spy circuits for “damaging information,” and read the hew data with growing elation.
“Your little house in Virginia and what you do there are all known to me, Ms. Morrison,” Lutt said. “I also know about your deal with the French ambassador. It’s dangerous to play both sides of the street, didn’t you know that?”
She had a palm on each cheek and was glaring at Lutt with a stricken expression.
“Now, here’s what you’ll do, Ms. Morrison,” Lutt said. “You will tell the AIP Council Gil has had a change of heart. He intends to betray me. You can do that, can’t you?”
She nodded without taking her hands from her cheeks.
“You will say the stories about an alien captive have proved untrue. There is no such captive. Got that?”
Aga
in, she nodded.
“And you will report to me daily for instructions on what to tell the AIP Council and the French ambassador. Understood?”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”
“Now, leave my mother’s house and make sure you’re not seen.”
“Just a minute!” Phoenicia objected.
Barbara Morrison wavered.
“Get out!” Lutt ordered.
The administrative assistant fled.
Lutt looked at his mother. “Your political naiveté has almost ruined my campaign, Mother. She was going to set me up at a debate, make me look ridiculous.”
“Lutt . . . I swear I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t know! So from now on you make no political decisions at all without consulting me!”
She bridled. “I do have some intelligence, Lutt. And I am still your mother.”
“But you’re not my campaign director.”
“Yes, Lutt.”
Lutt recalled hearing her use that precise tone with his father. It did not fool him.
“You’ll regret it if you cross me,” Lutt said.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I see I’ve made myself clear.”
“But I’m your mother!”
“So act like one!”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“There’s another thing, Mother. I want you to increase the budget for Sam Kand at my shop.”
Her back stiffened. “That’s a financial matter. Morey and I have decided—”
“Undecide, Mother. Your fancy friends would really enjoy hearing about how you almost messed up my political future.”
“You’d destroy your campaign just to hurt me?”
“Don’t test it, Mother. I don’t want these petty things distracting me when it comes time to revitalize the GOP.”
He broke the connection and looked up at the ceiling.
“Was that ruthless enough for you, Father?”
***
Mme. Hanson will be taken to the island from Marseilles in a sealed helicopter, unable to see out. Be certain she is not armed. She will be guarded at all times en route. If the meetings with Mademoiselle D’Amato are private, all conversations between the two must be recorded secretly.
—Special Order OE’B Number 30, French Foreign Legion
Nishi remained at the window for several minutes after the messenger’s departure. Lunch sat heavily on her stomach.
So Phoenicia was arriving within the hour.
Was it wrong to say Lorna could not be at my meeting with Phoenicia?
A sound behind her brought her around. Servobots were cleaning, dusting and arranging the reception room. One of the ‘bots, Wytee informed her, was a spy device.
Once more, she faced the sea. A sharp wind rippled the waters. It was a cold late fall day. She had not expected it to be chilly on the Mediterranean. Nishi shivered.
Or is it just apprehension about this meeting?
Wytee, on a settee nearby, rippled its yellow fur. Nishi not worry. Wytee help.
I know you’ll help, Wytee. I just can’t understand why Phoenicia would come in person.
Soon learn.
She looked fondly at her pet. No . . . much more than a pet. Since Wytee’s arrival, life had become smoother and more interesting. The creature reported not only the thoughts of her personal associates, but also those of any one who came within range. What would Phoenicia Hanson’s thoughts reveal?
The entire Hanson family is unpredictable, she decided. Why didn’t Lutt come? Is he angry because of Lorna’s stories? But he hasn’t even tried to send word and it’s been three months! Of course, there’s his political campaign. But all those stories about his plans to marry Eola VanDyke. Surely he won’t go through with it.
Nishi not worry!
She felt a wash of soothing sympathy from Wytee and tried to relax.
Lutt, my man of two worlds—Dreen and human, private and political. Why is he seeking such exalted office?
Nishi learn soon, Wytee offered.
And what is happening to poor Ryll?
Ryll Dreen. Dreen friend, Wytee responded.
From her window she could see two of the Legion’s gun batteries—turreted gray mounds with long barrels protruding—all framed against a background of evergreens.
Weapons everywhere. Even Lorna had brought a weapon, an antique she called “my equalizer.” The Legion thought it a joke.
Nishi sighed. The ninety-day wonder of Lorna’s articles had passed and the publishers clamored for new revelations. They even wanted a book. Lorna spoke of very large offers.
“They’ll pay millions, honey!”
Phoenicia comes because she fears a book’s revelations. What will she do if I say Lutt breaches the promise to me?
That had been Lorna’s idea, one eagerly taken up by Mrs. Ebey. Trust Mrs. Ebey to focus on the money.
Well, why not? What else do I have? And my life is my own concern! Lutt certainly appears to have no worries about me!
Nishi fussbudget, Wytee quipped.
Wytee had dredged the term from someone’s mind and used it now whenever she needed joking out of her apprehensions.
Nishi smiled, then frowned. The mystery of Wytee did not concern her deeply but she occasionally wondered if the creature might be having a secret influence on her. There were oddities. Everyone thought Wytee was a cat. Even O’Hara had come to that idea and apologized to her “for unseemly behavior,” blaming “too much of the drink.” But no one investigated her pet. Did Wytee prevent curiosity?
Wytee Nishi friend, Wytee offered.
She felt a soothing wash of the creature’s concern and shook her head. Worries did her no good. Her gaze went to the horizon. Was that faraway dot the chopper bringing Phoenicia Hanson? The dot grew larger with alarming rapidity and resolved into a Legion copter. She heard the engine and rotors. Is it the one? Sometimes, other choppers came, some with officials to tell her about conditions on Venus and urge actions to gain Lutt’s communicators.
Because of Wytee, she knew it was not just communicators the Legion desired.
They sought bigger game. The Legion wanted Lutt’s Spiral technology with its space-travel advantages.
But three months now and she was losing patience with both Legion and Lutt. And where was Raj Dood’s promised help?
I should never have pledged my honor not to escape!
The Legion’s regional prefect was almost reason enough to defy her code of honor. An oily fat man with a black toupee, he spoke only in unctuous tones. “We must not arouse the curiosity of the enemy. You are a woman wronged and have a natural interest in this man Hanson.”
The prefect’s lack of candor angered her. “Do the Chinese not see reports of Monsieur Hanson’s news service?” she asked.
“Naturally! But they show no dangerous curiosity.”
And the prefect said not one word about the wires she had sent to Lutt, all of them unanswered! What more should she do? Go crawling to-Lutt on her knees? Not even for the Legion!
She wanted no more of the prefect’s platitudes. “The Yankees always try to get the most out of us,” he said. “Squeeze these Hansons, little one. Our agents say the stories of Madame Subiyama bring the perspiration to his brow.”
So the Legion used blackmail instead of money! Where was the honor in that? It was inexcusable, even if things were bad in Paris and very bad on Venus. And was it honorable for them to play this game while their “little one” rotted in a stupid villa?
I have done enough, she thought. I no longer am content to be a prisoner, even of the Legion.
The arriving helicopter swung wide over the villa and came down on the small field north of her where, according to local stories, the Roman Emperor Trajan once had practiced his horsemanship.
It gave her an odd link with history, Nishi thought. She and Lorna used the place for target practice with the antique pistol that had belonged to Subiyam
a’s grandfather. Although the Legion thought the ancient gun amusing and not very dangerous, they made Subiyama take it out only under supervision.
Nishi watched a woman in a well-fitted gray suit emerge from the chopper and dodge under the rotors. The woman glanced at the villa and Nishi recognized Phoenicia Hanson. An officer accompanying her held her arm and brought her to a stop outside the danger zone. They conversed there, the words unintelligible in the chopper’s noise. The officer gesticulated and said something vehement but Phoenicia shook her head.
Nishi! It was Wytee with something urgent.
What is it, Wytee?
Phoenicia lady brings poison thing to kill you!
Nishi shot a glance at Wytee, then out the window where Phoenicia still argued with the Legion officer.
Are you sure?
Wytee sure.
But how could she do it and not be caught?
Poison take three days. Make no noise. You not feel poison thing. Guard men not find.
Damn her!
Abruptly, Nishi dashed out of the room, up the stairs and into Lorna’s quarters. Subiyama, in a billowing magenta housecoat, sat reading a book on her bed. Nishi was not fooled by this apparent agreement with her orders to stay away from Phoenicia. Subiyama intended to sneak downstairs and spy on the meeting the minute Nishi was involved in the reception room.
“You changed your mind,” Subiyama said. “You want me there when the Hanson dame talks to you.”
“No. Where is your weapon?”
“My weap—You mean Grampaw’s hawgleg?”
“The gun we shoot!”
“Why’n hell you want that thing? You gonna have a shootout with Old Lady Hanson?”
Nishi held out a hand. “Give me the revolver, please.”
“Okay, honey. But this better be good copy.” Subiyama fished under her mattress and brought out the antique pistol, a stainless steel .357 magnum with fitted grips.
Nishi grabbed it from her.
“Now you be careful with that thing!” Subiyama warned. “Remember it has a hair trigger.”
Man of Two Worlds Page 37
